The boys are back in town. The ones with magic hands. Game’s on.
Pull on sweater. The red one with teardrop slits up the arm, around the low neck. Pull it lower. Push’em up…and squeeze. A little more. Wiggle into black jeans. The ones with silver tacks up the sides. Holes in the knees. Tight. Standing room only.
Boots or heels?
Knee boots with heels. Black. Zip’em up over jeans.
Bend over and brush it out. Flip it back. Shake it out. A hint of black in a pillow of blond.
No candy apple cheeks. Streak pink. Line eyes in coal. Too hard. Smudge it. Midnight blue mascara. Lash by lash. Thicker. Darker. Wide-eyed angel and dark eyed—
Dark red lips. Full on top. Smile. Too girl scout cookie. Again. Got what you want. Got it down.
Silver choker. Big hoops. Bangles.
Perfume. Spray it in the air and shimmy through it. Splash it here, here and a little… there.
Black leather jacket. Gonna hang loose. Gonna play around. Gonna—
Wait, wait. Wrapped up too tight.
Pull off sweater. Slip on silky blouse…button down. All the way down. Doesn’t go with jeans. Gotta put-on slinky pants. Shit, boot zipper stuck. Get on floor and pull. Bust it. Peel off jeans. Yank’em. One side then the other. Twisting thong. Ouch. Slip on killer strappy sandals. Shit, forgot pedicure. Change to pointy heels.
Flyaway hair. Damn sweater static. Pull it back, clip it down. Smeared mascara. Raccoon eyes.
Find a corner in the shadows. Watch a busty brunette cuddle the bar, trading shots of cleavage for shots of Dewar’s. Watch the regulars gather round, rubbing, patting, squeezing. The movers, the shakers, the doers.
But for you, it’s all about the music. Well, okay, Johnny. Thin frame hunched loose in black leather vest. Raven hair ringlets over ravenous eyes. Hint of brogue in a saw mill voice. Splays us Midwest girls to the core. The air is static with come-ons. Yours, theirs, his.
He picks up his guitar. The heat is in his hands.
Warm up—a pat on the back, a friendly handshake.
Pluck and strum—a leisurely stroll. A country drive.
Lingering at the fork in the road—TWANG.
Fingers shift into gear. Tugging…exploring…a low note here and a high note there. Heat scales. Pulling, pressing, squeezing the metal strings into vibrations. Hands grab and slide, twist and clench the neck into submission. He presses it to his chest, he slams it against his thighs. He’s down on his knees. He thrusts it up. Screeeech.
The game is on. Around the dance floor you bounce, immerse, gyrate, and oscillate. You’re filling up. Only one empty space. Johnny’s eyes swagger the room and…find you. They’re the color of naked.
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Chera Thompson Bio: A graduate of Ohio University School of Journalism, her short stories have been published in The Los Angeles Review, Roadside Fiction, Queen City Flash, Have A NYC 3. She was a finalist in Glimmer Train’s short fiction contest.
3 thoughts on “Getting Game”
This short turned up the heat on a cool autumn morning.
I’ve been there. Thanks for the reminder! Great images. “the color of naked.” Sheer poetry.
Especially in a piece this short, every word must count. Thomson makes each word not only count, but drill down into the very heart of the matter. “The game is on” and the game is the never ending search for human connection.